


Under the In(flu)ence

by RileyC



Category: Agent Pendergast series - Child & Preston
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aloysius has the flu, and is a bit snippy about it; Vinnie is pampering him anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the In(flu)ence

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a ten word microfic. Obviously, it had other ideas.

Tired, achy, and frustrated, Aloysius Pendergast aimed a suspicious look at the tray placed before him. "What is it?" he asked, making no attempt to reach for a spoon.

"My grandmother's chicken soup," Vincent D'Agosta told him, settled comfortably in a chair by the bedside. "Eat -- it'll cure what ails you."

Pendergast eyed him balefully, doubting that very much. He was increasingly convinced he had been infected with some bio-engineered pathogen. One that was, however -- and he regarded Vincent, blatantly exuding robust health -- not contagious. "You prepared it?" he said, studying the soup again, bits of chicken, carrot, and less easily defined vegetable parts swimming in the rich broth. He could _nearly_ smell the garlic as he skimmed the spoon through it.

"Yep." Sleeves rolled up, tie and collar loosened, Vincent certainly had the look of someone who had just spent hours in the kitchen. Hours that he, Pendergast, had spent confined to the sickroom by himself. "Proctor chopped the onions," Vincent added. "Seemed to think his aunt Leticia's recipe was better."

Pendergast frowned at that, experiencing something suspiciously like a twinge of jealousy. No doubt this was another symptom of his rapidly deteriorating condition. "Vincent," he put down the spoon, "I need to be transported to the Feversham Clinic." He spoke quietly, calmly, so as not to arouse alarm.

Displaying none, only sitting back and crossing one leg over the other, Vincent asked, "Why's that?"

Sober and grim, Pendergast said, "I believe I am fatally ill with an unknown contagion, Vincent."

Vincent's response was remarkably unsympathetic. "You've got the flu."

Assuming a look of injured dignity, Pendergast informed him, "I certainly am not felled by mere influenza."

Unmoved, Vincent sat up and leaned forward. "Yeah, you are."

"May I ask precisely when you acquired a medical degree?" Pendergast said, and trusted he only imagined the snippy note in his voice.

Vincent only rolled his eyes and repeated the command to eat his soup.

Pendergast aimed a cool look at him -- and found it most disquieting that it was he, not Vincent, who was the first to glance away.

He sighed, aching in all his joints, and picked up the spoon again. One swallow of soup, another, grudgingly admitting it was not entirely devoid of merit. "What's in it?"

"Chicken, garlic, parsnips, Nonna's secret ingredients."

Were his taste buds not dulled by illness, Pendergast believed he could have identified even the most elusive Neapolitan ingredient. As circumstances were, however… He managed a few more spoonfuls, then gingerly pushed the tray away. "Thank you, Vincent."

Nodding, Vincent picked it up. "There's more, when you want it."

Pendergast nodded tiredly and settled back against his cushions, vainly seeking a comfortable position. Eyes closed, he listened to a murmur of voices at the bedroom door, and supposed Vincent would leave him alone once more, no doubt to swap more tales of Nonna's and Aunt Leticia's with Proctor. He heard the door close, shifted restlessly -- and gave a slight start as a cool, broad palm rested on his forehead.

"Wouldn't kill you to take some aspirin," Vincent said, a gentle look in his eyes now.

Stubbornly shaking his head, Pendergast thought if Vincent would only continue slowly stroking his forehead, and back over his head, manufactured analgesics would be rendered quite superfluous.

He sighed, looked up at Vincent, and couldn't keep a trace of petulance from his voice as he asked, "Why aren't you sick?"

Taking no offense, Vincent only smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. "I don't know. Maybe because I bothered to get a flu shot?" More serious, he asked, "What hurts most?"

Pendergast grimaced. "Everything."

"Can you stretch out on your stomach?"

Regarding him curiously, Pendergast nodded, arranging himself as required. "What do you propo --oh…" Yes, that was … rather satisfactory.

Vincent had pushed up Pendergast's pajama shirt, and begun a slow, firm massage along aching shoulders and on down his back. Pendergast folded his arms under his head and closed his eyes, content to leave himself -- quite literally -- in his friend's strong and capable hands as they worked at soothing aching muscles. He very much resented the chill he felt coming on, and how it forced him to move away from that comforting touch and curl into his himself, shivering as violently as if a blast of artic air was tearing through the bedroom.

"Hey." Vincent reached for him, pulling up blankets, holding Pendergast tight against him, Vincent's body heat slowly subduing the cold until Pendergast lay weakly in his arms. He should move, encourage Vincent to withdraw the warm embrace. The will do so simply would not present itself, however, and Pendergast could only rest there, feeling enormously safe and warm and cared for.

===  
"Aloysius?"

D'Agosta cautiously moved, careful not to disturb the sleeping Pendergast. Resting the back of his hand against the pale forehead, he thought the fever might be easing some.

Taking time to kick off his shoes, and remove his belt and necktie, Vincent straightened the bed some, turned down the light, and settled back down beside Pendergast. His friend wasn't out of the woods just yet, and Vincent wanted to stay close, in case he was needed. Bad enough to be sick, but to be sick and alone, in this big old house -- that was no prescription for recovery.

And truth be told, Vincent didn't like thinking Pendergast may have spent a lot of time just like that.

Pendergast grumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, edging toward him. Vincent reached over, pulling him close, smiling at the soft sound of contentment as Pendergast rested against him, face nuzzled into his neck.

Vincent pressed a soft kiss to his friend's fevered forehead, and settled back against the pillows with Pendergast in his arms.

===  
Sometime later, carrying a tray of green tea, Proctor opened Agent Pendergast's bedroom door, took stock of the situation within -- his employer and Lt. D'Agosta, comfortably entwined and sleeping soundly -- and, quietly shutting the door, retraced his steps.

"About time," he murmured, reaching the foot of the stairs, and went off to the kitchen to enjoy a bowl of the lieutenant's soup. Very like Great Aunt Leticia's indeed, but perhaps just needing an extra pinch of…

end


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